The Pale Banner
Thorne. The name was not a call but a crack, a dry snap of authority that cut through the hiss of the steam valves and the low, grinding thrum of the Vane Pharmaceutical Mill’s night shift. I looked up from the refractometer, my hands stained with the yellow residue of tincture, and saw Mr. Grist standing in the doorway of the mixing hall. He did not wear the standard grey coveralls of the...
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